


Life Goes On

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Denial, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Prison, Quests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-18 18:46:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2358389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Peter Burke is shot while investigating political corruption, everyone's world is turned upside down. Takes place during the latter half of Season 5 before Neal's kidnapping in the final episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> I love to read comments from readers, but this time I would ask your indulgence to please hold your comments until the end of the story. I promise to respond to each and every one at that time.
> 
> Many thanks to Treon for her helpful suggestions.

     Neal watched the fleeing suspect raise and aim a gun at Peter. Time seemed to stand still, the whole tableau frozen in that microsecond of time. Then he heard the report from the weapon and saw Peter start to fall. He didn’t register the answering cracks from the FBI team’s weapons as they zeroed in on the shooter and riddled his body. Neal’s tunnel vision saw only Peter, laying on the cement, blood seeping ominously from a wound in his chest.

     Neal felt numb all over as he watched the paramedics load his mentor into the waiting ambulance that lurched into action and sped away with a screech of tires on asphalt. He stood unmoving on the spot as the urgent wailing of the siren receded into the distance. Before help had arrived, he had knelt next to Peter, trying franticly to get his friend to open his eyes, to talk to him, to just register Neal’s presence. He wanted Peter to know that he was there by his side—always by his side. He willed his own strength into Peter’s body. He didn’t want Peter to leave him!

     When the EMTs pushed him aside and began to do what they could to keep Peter from doing just that, Neal felt adrift—like he was standing outside of himself watching everything around him in a dream. Eventually, Diana pulled him from his fugue state and pushed him into her car, and they sped along behind the ambulance. Jones was going to stay and secure the scene and do what else needed to be done. Neal found he really didn’t care right now what that was. He just needed to know that Peter would survive.

     After what seemed an interminable wait in the ER waiting room, Neal, Elizabeth and Diana were joined by a weary, solemn trauma physician. He very quietly informed them that, despite all of the valiant efforts by the ER team, they could not save the life of the man who was a husband, a supervisor and a friend to the three people in the room. He expressed his earnest sorrow for their loss.

     Elizabeth immediately collapsed into Neal’s arms and her sobs reverberated against his chest. Diana looked stricken, her normal stoic, no-nonsense affect shattered. Neal found that his mind simply could not compute the words because he just could not accept the validity of them. Peter Burke just couldn’t be dead. Peter simply would not allow himself to abandon his wife—his soul mate, and he certainly wouldn’t allow Neal to flounder on his own for the remaining portion of his parole agreement. No, this just was not happening!

     Eventually, FBI Division Head Bancroft, one of the highly placed muckety-mucks on the FBI’s food chain, appeared and gently led Elizabeth away. Then Department Head Hughes materialized and instructed Diana to take Neal back to his apartment, where he would remain under house arrest until further notice. During the ride back to Riverside Drive, neither Neal nor Diana spoke, both lost in the inner turmoil of their own minds. Uncharacteristically, Diana gave Neal a brief hug before she left him at the door to his apartment.

     In the days that followed, it was Mozzie who informed him that Elizabeth had arranged to have Peter’s body taken back to his hometown in Upstate New York for burial. No one from the FBI had thought it necessary to keep him in the loop. Neal supposed that he could forgive Elizabeth for neglecting him since she was most likely shrouded in her own bubble of grief. Jones and Diana were another story. Why hadn’t they taken the time to let him know?

     Eventually, it was Hughes who notified him that there was going to be a memorial service for Peter the following day. Hughes had magnanimously offered Neal a chance to speak at the gathering, but Neal declined. He just didn’t think that his confidence man façade would hold up if he allowed himself to speak of the special bond that he and Peter had developed. It was just too personal to share.

     After the day of the service passed, Neal was escorted to Hughes’ office by two US Marshals. The Department Head informed him that the terms of Neal’s parole agreement had been revisited by the mighty powers that be. It was their conclusion that with Peter no longer at the helm, Neal should return to prison for the following year to serve out his sentence. Without further ado or a chance to tell Mozzie or June good-bye, he was led away to a holding cell until his transfer could be arranged back to Sing-Sing.

     Warden Haskley was still in the driver’s seat at the now familiar prison. He greeted Neal with an ironic shake of his head. “Caffrey, you’re like a bad penny—you just keep popping up. This is what..…like the fourth time that you have graced us with your presence?”

     Neal just rewarded him with a rueful smile. “It seems that I just can’t stay away from your warm hospitality.”

     “Look, Caffrey, I know the circumstances surrounding this latest incarceration, and I’m sorry that it has come to this. I didn’t know Peter Burke very well, but he must have been quite an expert at his job if he managed to keep you in line for three years. Unfortunately, the work that the two of you did over the last few years is most likely very well known here in this prison. Therefore, my advice to you is to mentally prepare yourself to spend your remaining twelve months in solitary. It would be for your own protection, since inmates don’t take kindly to those who have worked for law enforcement.”

     Neal knew that spending 23 hours a day in a small windowless enclosure, having no contact with anyone, and nothing to occupy his mind, would cause him to either go berserk, or simply shrivel up and die. He told Warden Haskley that he knew the risks and would take his chances in the general prison population. The warden sighed, and wondered for a moment if this young felon simply had a death wish.

 

    


	2. Surviving

 

     This time around, there was no individual cell for Neal. He found that he would be sharing one with a man clearly well into his sixties—a lifer who had murdered three people during a robbery spree across the Mid-Atlantic States years ago. Decades in prison had taken their toll, and this now elderly inmate didn’t want any hassles. He would leave Neal alone if Neal reciprocated and caused him no grief. At least Neal had one less worry now that there was a truce with his bunkmate.

     His troubles began less than a week later, however, when he was cornered in the common area and brutally beaten by six men with an axe to grind against a person they deemed a snitch. The guards intervened, but not quickly enough to prevent Neal from winding up in the hospital infirmary with two broken ribs, a fractured cheekbone, a concussion and a bruised kidney.

     Neal had been discharged less than a week when it was only his graceful, athletic pivot that prevented him from being gutted by a homemade shiv in the dining room. As it was, he was admitted to the infirmary once more to have a jagged wound in his side stitched up, and antibiotics administered.

     When he was again released from the medical ward, he discovered that he now had a new cellmate. It was all that he could do to stand his ground and not start shaking as he gazed up into the very dark face of a 6’6” giant who sported cornrows and tattooed ink on both massive arms and up his thick neck. Neal simply closed his eyes and hoped that his death would be swift. The mountain that stood in front of him looked Neal up and down, smirked, and then clapped a heavy hand on the conman’s shoulder. “Miss June sends her regards; you get the top bunk.” That was the total communication between the two for the rest of the night.

     June had come to visit Neal the first month into his stay, and she clucked and fussed like a mother hen from behind the thick glass partition between them. She was a veteran visitor in high-security prisons. Many, many times in the past, it had been Byron who had sat before her. Both she and Neal knew that their conversations were being monitored, so any information that she passed on was banal and spoken in generalities. However, eventually, Neal’s fellow cellmate became more forthcoming. The huge African-American behemoth informed Neal that he was the grandson of one of Byron Ellington’s good friends from back in the day. Miss June was making sure that the felon’s family was being taken care of financially during his stint in the penitentiary. In return, he would make sure that nobody would mess with Neal for the rest of the duration of his.

     Mozzie never set foot inside of the prison. He was simply too paranoid to visit the citadel of “The Man” and come under their radar. Neal understood perfectly. From time to time, he would receive coded letters from his friend. Some he could decipher, others were simply too arcane for him to even have a clue. Nonetheless, Neal knew Mozzie was there for him, always.

     Neither Elizabeth, nor the White Collar team had ever visited. Eventually, in one of Mozzie’s less covert missives, he informed Neal that Elizabeth had sold her catering business to her partner, Yvonne, and had moved away to an undisclosed location. Neal supposed that he couldn’t fault her for wanting to put some distance between herself and heartbreaking memories. He just wished that she had said goodbye in person.

     Neal did eventually receive a letter with Jones’ return address on it. Of course, it had been opened and read before he received it. Jones told Neal that he was speaking on his own behalf, as well as Diana’s, when he said that they were really sorry that Neal had been sent back to prison. He informed Neal that he and Diana had both strenuously offered to take him on as a consultant at the Bureau, but were told that junior agents were not allowed to supervise felons on parole. They were not even permitted to visit Neal in prison.

     Jones then went on to say that the White Collar Division never really recovered from the loss of their beloved supervisor, and had undergone a drastic re-structuring. Hughes was forced out into retirement, and Bancroft was now assigned to a post on the West coast. New faces were the order of the day, and seemed to rotate in and out of the unit with surprising regularity. Nobody stayed put for very long, and there was little continuity. Diana had decided to use her father’s diplomatic ties, and had accepted a position with the American embassy. Jones, himself, was also contemplating a lateral move to a different department. He just wanted Neal to know that he, like Peter, was greatly missed.

   Another unexpected letter came to Neal about a month later, and it was almost his undoing. It was from Peter’s mother in Upstate New York. With tears in his eyes, he read and re-read the delicate cursive that said that Peter’s mother and father were sorry to hear that Neal had to spend the remainder of his sentence in prison. She went on to say that she just knew that Neal was as devastated as they were not to ever be able to see Peter again. She ended her short note with an invitation for Neal to stay with them for a few days after he was released so that he could visit Peter’s grave, if that was his wish. Their door would always be open for him.

     That night, Neal finally let a profound grief that he had buried deep down in his heart bubble to the surface. He let himself weep unashamedly for Peter, Peter’s parents, Elizabeth, and finally for himself. He let it all come out in the dark recesses of his cell while his guardian in the bunk below pretended to be soundly asleep. It would be the one and only time that the former conman would allow himself this indulgence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only assume that many readers are frustrated with me at this point in the story. I hope that those who have decided to hang in will continue to do so. The chapter after this one will be pivotal, and you may get an inkling of where I'm going with this saga.


	3. Introspection

 

     Now that Neal’s life was less threatened, it took on the monotony of sameness, but at least that gave him time for introspection. Lying on his bunk at night in the darkness, he would re-visit that last case that had culminated in Peter’s death. Peter Burke, “The Archeologist,” had never been satisfied with how quickly everything was resolved after he had been acquitted of Senator Terrance Pratt’s murder. Answers had seemed too pat, as if certain information was being swept hastily under the rug. There were just too many loose ends and things that didn’t add up, and the impromptu offer of a job in Washington seemed highly serendipitous. Peter suspected that there was a cover-up in play, and he wasn’t sure how high up that went politically. His promotion to DC would conveniently serve to keep him close and under certain people’s direct scrutiny. So, he had declined the “honor” and had begun a clandestine investigation on his own, allowing very few into his confidence at the Bureau, and forsaking FBI resources. He simply didn’t know whom he could trust.

     Little by little, small parallels were drawn between some high-ranking public officials and organized crime families, but Peter had sparse, if any, actual proof. When Peter and Neal had gotten past their rift that was caused by Neal’s well-intentioned intercession to free Peter, his mentor took him into his confidence regarding what he had been trying to do. They had even brought Mozzie’s expertise into the equation, as incomprehensible as that seemed.

     What they slowly began to suspect was akin to a Gordian knot of intrigue, and they had only scratched the surface. This last case sort of tied into their sub-rosa investigation. Although the suspect, a power broker of questionable oil drilling rights, should have been in Organized Crime’s bailiwick, Peter insisted that illicit funds were crossing state lines, and therefore fell under White Collar’s purview. Right now oil was a more valuable commodity than diamonds, and whatever power tsar oversaw its extraction and distribution stood to make profits in the billions.

     Working backwards, like peeling away layers of an onion, Peter, Mozzie and Neal were shocked to find ties that stopped at the doors of some very intimidating political figures in the U.S. House Judiciary Committee, a standing committee of the United States House of Representatives charged with overseeing the administration of justice. The federal courts, administrative agencies and federal law enforcement entities all fell under their auspices. One of the political figures was actually a member of the President’s Cabinet!

     The New York power broker they had been prepared to arrest that day had been but a small cog in a very intricate machine tied into an august body of public officials. Had unseen, ruthless powers in Congress become worried that they would be exposed? Had they put out a hit on Peter to insure their anonymity? Had this lowly peon in the grand scheme of things been instructed to take Peter Burke out if Peter got too close? Or had he simply panicked when the FBI, search warrant in hand, had showed up at his door? Apparently, the guy realized that he was expendable, that no one was coming to his rescue, and decided to fall on his sword rather than be taken in for questioning. However, he made sure to take Peter with him as his last act in this drama. Sometimes Neal felt like he was parroting Mozzie with all of his conspiracy scenarios, but, really, prison was the ideal milieu for speculation, no matter how off the wall.

     While being incarcerated, the outside world and its kaleidoscope of ever changing headlines ceases to exist for most inmates. Thus it was for Neal. With a lot of time on his hands, it was easy to fall back to what he knew best—the past. Remembering the last few years allowed him to simply choose those memories that gave him temporary comfort. Some nights he pictured himself in Peter’s car on those long stakeouts. He could almost smell the odor of deviled ham and hear the announcer call the plays from a baseball game on the radio. He could see himself in Peter’s office, tossing his rubber band ball, while Peter gave him the stink eye about his behavior. He could hear Peter’s intonation when he told Neal to “cowboy up.” The best recollections were of those evenings when Peter took him home to pick his brain over one of El’s dinners.

     If he was honest, Neal knew that he was really torturing himself with all this reminiscing. It was akin to abrading his heart with a jagged file, but right now memories were all that he had left to fill the hole in that aching heart. He was trying desperately to cope. It just wouldn’t do for Neal Caffrey to fall apart.

 

*******

     Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. Seasons changed, and were the only thing breaking the dullness of Neal’s days until one year had passed and he was a free man. There would be no anklet, no Marshals breathing down his neck, and no eight-hour days spent at a desk on the 21st floor of the FBI building. He was unrestricted and could do as he pleased.

     Neal spent a few weeks back in the loft that June had kept just as he left it. There was no way that he could ever truly thank her for her kindness and love, even though he tried. June simply brushed away his gratitude and stated that was what one did for those you considered family. Neal was left to contemplate just what he would do next.

     The letter from Peter’s mother was never far from his mind, and one day he rented a car and made the long drive to northern New York State. He had called ahead, so Mrs. Burke was expecting him. In fact, she and her husband were seated on the front porch swing awaiting Neal’s arrival when he pulled into the driveway of their modest bungalow on a quiet cul-de-sac.

     Both of the elder Burkes were well into their seventies, but appeared to be healthy and vigorous. When Neal shook hands with Peter’s father, he found himself staring into the same warm, brown eyes that Neal had looked into across a desk for almost three years. He could see other similarities between father and son in mannerisms and speech.

     Mrs. Burke was more effusive in her greeting, giving Neal a warm hug and bringing him iced tea and cookies. However, she was a perceptive woman, and she sensed the deep melancholy within her guest. This sad, young man seemed so adrift, and her heart went out to him. So, she insisted that Neal come and see her prize roses in the back yard. Holding onto his arm as they strolled along, she mused aloud, “Never seeing someone again is a very heavy burden to bear…..a loss like no other. Coming to terms with that, and accepting things that we cannot change takes time. Eventually, we have to convince ourselves that being content with memories is all we can expect.”

         Neal felt ashamed that he was being egocentric in his grief. Peter’s parents would never see their son again either. So he self-consciously swallowed the lump in his throat and told Peter’s mother how very sorry he was for her loss. “But it was your loss as well, young man. Peter had great affection for you, and I’m sure that you returned it in kind.” Peter’s mother was as astute and observant as her son had been. Neal marveled at how the supposedly “weaker” sex always seemed to adapt and keep going when life hit them with adversity and tragedy.

     Mrs. Burke had Peter’s old room aired out and awaiting Neal as an overnight guest. The plan was to visit Peter’s grave the next morning. Neal walked around the small second bedroom, fondly touching the baseball trophies that still adorned the dresser top. That resurrected memories of tossing a baseball with Peter on the mound at Yankee Stadium. Now he wanted to somehow feel Peter’s presence, as he had that day, but he just couldn’t sense the man who had spent his youth within these walls.

     Later, after dinner, there were also feelings of Deja vu when he noticed the wedding photo of Peter and Elizabeth on the living room wall. Seeing Peter togged out in a formal tux brought back a recollection of Peter and Neal’s prom picture the night of the off-track betting sting. Peter seemed to be everywhere in this house, but……. he really wasn’t, Neal thought sadly.

     The next day, the trio made the short drive to the picturesque, pristinely tended cemetery that sat atop a small rise. They left Peter’s Dad sitting on a stone bench in the shade at the bottom of the hill while Neal and Mrs. Burke made the climb. Peter’s tombstone was simple—just the words “Beloved Son and Husband,” and the dates of his birth and his death. Neal just couldn’t get it into his head that Peter was really here. He asked Peter’s mother if Elizabeth ever visited.

     “No, I’m afraid that we don’t see our daughter-in-law anymore, and we are quite sad about that. She stayed for just a short while after the burial, but then returned to New York to tend to her business. We miss her just as we miss Peter. But life goes on, young man, even if it doesn’t continue the way that we want it to.” Mrs. Burke said softly. She looked sidelong at Neal and paused for a few seconds, as if trying to make up her mind about something, then proceeded to veer off inexplicably into a story about a friend of hers.

     “Now this friend, Betty, is quite a bit younger than Mr. Burke and myself, but she suddenly found herself to be a widow, nonetheless. She and her husband had been devoted to each other throughout their entire marriage. Then, one day, he was simply gone and she was alone. We feared that she would never get over her loss, but, after a time, we heard that she took to traveling all by herself. She had a lot of gumption, that one. We would get the occasional post card from far away ports while she was on a cruise or a guided excursion. I believe that the last one came from Auckland, New Zealand. And you’ll never guess what she wrote. She, who claimed to have lost the other half of her heart when her husband left her, had found love again. We were so happy for her. Even if she had provided us with an address, we most likely wouldn’t have been able to visit and see him for ourselves. We are simply too old and frail to go halfway around the world now. I think that she just wanted to reassure us that all was well.”

     This little narrative, spoken in a near whisper on a hill in the gentle sunlight, seemed innocuous, but Mrs. Burke’s eyes sought Neal’s and she held his gaze for almost a full minute. She then continued, quite wistfully, “This man in her life, his name is Phillip Nolan, and he seems to complete her in the only way that a soul mate can. Betty is a very lucky woman and I envy her.”

     Neal stared at the matronly woman as if her intense gaze held the answers to the enigmas of the universe. Then he gave her a slight smile and said, “Yes, I suppose that life does go on.” He got a shared smile in return.


	4. The Quest

 

     Neal did nothing but think during the drive back to the city. He played that conversation over and over in his mind, wondering if he was making illogical assumptions and envisioning what he wanted to see rather than what was reality. However, by the time he was once again back in Manhattan, he had come up with a plan. A call to Mozzie was his first step in that plan.

     Mozzie stared at the rather long list of necessary materials that Neal had given him and shook his head. “You’re seriously going to forge a passport with an alias so that you can travel almost 7,000 miles around the globe on a hunch that Peter is out there? Neal, maybe Peter’s mom is just having flights of fancy envisioning another Golden Ager having a fling in a magical faraway land. You need to get a grip and think this through, mon frer!”

     “Moz, she all but left me a breadcrumb trail,” Neal insisted.

   Mozzie raised one cynical eyebrow, but Neal ignored him and laid out the clues. “She never once said that Peter was dead; she just kept reiterating that he was gone and that they missed him. Then she was very precise when she mentioned Auckland, New Zealand, and pointedly told me the name of the friend’s love interest. Think about the names, Moz. Betty is another sobriquet for Elizabeth, and Phillip Nolan was the name of “The Man Without A Country.” Remember…… he was the main character in a story by Edward Everett Hale …… an American Army Lieutenant in the early 1800s who loved his country but renounced those who ran it. He was tried for treason and exiled, never allowed to return. It all fits, Moz, you have to see that!”

     “It doesn’t matter what I see; it matters what you see. And right now you are seeing things that you want to see,” Mozzie cautioned. “Neal, you’re a free man now. You can go wherever you want to go and do whatever you want to do…….. as long as you don’t get caught.” Mozzie added that admonition. “Do you really want to go off on a wild goose chase because you haven’t come to terms with Peter’s death?”

     “He may not be dead, Mozzie!” Neal raised his voice for the first time at his friend. He was immediately contrite and said more softly, “Moz, please, just indulge me. Okay?”

     “Neal, you don’t even have an address, and Auckland is a big city. You could be chasing your tail for months and months! And do you realize that while attempting this noble quest, you risk the possibility of being arrested for traveling under a fraudulent passport? Thanks to terrorist activity, points of entry into a country are monitored much more closely now. Neal, chasing a phantom could get you thrown back into prison!” After a long minute of Neal’s determined stare, the little man finally capitulated and answered with a theatrical sigh, “I’ll work on getting your supplies.”

 

*******

     It took Neal over a week to assemble the pages, apply the holographs, add the inking and craft the stamps. He gave himself entries and exits from various South American and European countries. Yep, “Mr. Kent Allard” was a world traveler! Kent Allard was also known as “The Shadow” in the 1940s pulp fiction crime novels that depicted him as a wealthy, young man about town. That was just a thin veneer that really disguised a crime-fighting vigilante. Add to that the fact that this hero wore a black fedora; it was pure synchronicity!

     “Let me know when you finally get there,” Mozzie implored Neal when the time for departure arrived.

     “It may take awhile,” Neal cautioned. “If I’m being watched, I’m not going to lead them right to Peter, if he’s out there. I’ll make a few hedonistic stops along the way to make it look plausible. I’m a guy who just got out of prison, so I’m going to be hitting the hot spots and catching up on what I’ve been missing for years.”

     The next day, he bid an emotional farewell to June, and then took a cab that evening to JFK for the red eye flight, under his own name, to San Francisco. He enjoyed a few days of wine tasting and hot tubs in Sonoma Valley before boarding a plane once again, this time headed to Hawaii. He stuck to the smaller, less populated islands like Kauai, and enjoyed the sun and surf. From there, it was Mr. Kent Allard, not Neal Caffrey, who took off to explore a myriad of South Pacific islands.

     Like a hyper-kinetic grasshopper, Neal traveled to Fiji, Tonga, and ultimately Tahiti, in French Polynesia, a true pleasure-seeker’s wet dream. He stayed for a week, but then Neal just could not pass up the opportunity to visit Easter Island, one of the remotest populated islands, to see the haunting monumental statues called “moai” that were said to have been created by the early Rapa Nui people. Neal felt very small as he gazed up at them, like a tiny flyspeck on the map of humanity. For a second, he wondered how he expected to find one man that he hoped was somewhere out there in this big world. Had he been simply deluding himself, as Mozzie had pointed out? Was he a stupid fool? He shook himself to fight off the approaching doubt and depression. He had survived so much in his short life; he could do this!

     After thousands of air miles, Neal was ready to finally reach his real destination—Auckland. Descending the steps from the jet, Neal immediately fell in love with this elegant city. It gleamed in the sun like a gem. Neal had done his homework. New Zealand consists of two large landmasses that are suitably named North Island and South Island. Auckland is situated on North Island, and is the largest and most populated city of the country. There are over a million and a half people living in the urban area, mostly of Polynesian origin. It is a clean, bright metropolis with mesmerizing vistas of beautiful blue seas, and a wealth of sailing vessels moored in her yacht basins. In fact, Auckland is known as “The City of Sails,” for this very reason. The climate is subtropical and welcoming. This could easily be called paradise.

     Temporarily, Neal registered under his new alias at a moderately priced hotel. He would have to keep an eye on his cash flow, which had been dwindling rapidly with his globetrotting expedition. If his stay became extended, he would try to find a room for rent. Eventually, that is exactly what he had to do because his investigation was now into the third week.

     At first, Neal had obtained a white page directory for the city and began calling a wealth of Phillip Nolans, or P. Nolans who were listed. If the man who answered to that name didn’t have Peter’s voice, he apologized and disconnected. He used a library computer to check all social sites for either a Phillip or Betty Nolan. There was nothing on Facebook, Twitter or LinkedIn. It was a long shot because he really didn’t think that either Peter or Elizabeth would chance that. He Googled their names and used reverse directories, all to no avail. He checked to see if there was an accountant listed under Peter’s possible alias, and then checked party planners under El’s. Next, he visited the numerous art galleries where Elizabeth may have obtained a job. He had tiny snapshots of both Peter and El, so that was somewhat of a help when he asked people in person.

     Lying in his narrow bed at night, he knew he was looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. He had hit a wall and it was time for last-ditch efforts. He sat up with determination, turned on the lamp, and began to compose a short, cryptic message that he would post in the personal ads of the city’s newspaper the next day. He would have them run it for one week.

 

            _**“Am in need of ‘The Archeologist.’ Have been digging for a long time, but gotten nowhere. Even though last excavation had unexpected outcome, would like to discuss new enterprise now that I’m free to do so. Contact Kent Allard ASAP.”**_


	5. A Message From The Grave

     Neal checked the personals everyday for a response. After five days, he thought that this was another dead end, and was now willing to heed Mozzie’s sage advice and simply pack up and go home. But on that sixth day, wedged in between other messages, was what he had been waiting for.

      _**“The Shadow should check out Waiheke Island. The underground tunnels would be best place to start excavation. Weather good for Wednesday.”**_

Neal felt the first thrill of hope blossom in his chest. He immediately went to the public library computer system to research everything that he could find on Waiheke Island. Touted by a tourist site as a haven of beautiful vineyards, olive groves and beaches, it was just a 35-minute ferry ride from downtown Auckland. It boasted an artist colony, with galleries and craft boutiques, and inviting island trails said to meander along cliff tops and into cool enclaves of the native forest. At the eastern end of the island, the Stony Batter Walkway led to a system of World War II gun emplacements and underground tunnels. The tunnels were open to the public, but it was suggested that an explorer bring their own flashlight.

     Wednesday morning found Neal boarding a ferry bound for Waiheke Island. The only fedora that he could find to buy was a straw one, so that would have to substitute for the black one that “The Shadow” always wore. The trip was uneventful, but the island was, indeed, a magnificent sight to behold as the craft approached by sea. Now on dry land, Neal asked directions for the trail that led to the underground caves. He was told to use the little jitneys that ran regularly to the walking paths.

     Once there, Neal found that the track wasn’t a straight shot from point A to point B. It was a serpentine hike, which had him gazing out upon the hills, the valleys and the turquoise blue bay at various intervals. One could not hurry through this paradise. It wasn’t as if he had a definite timetable; his contact had not specified one. It would be Wednesday all day, so he could be in for a long wait once he did reach his intended destination.

     Finally, the well-marked path that he was traveling led to the cave entrance, and apparently Neal was the only tourist here at the moment. Taking a deep breath, he turned on his flashlight and proceeded slowly into a dark, dank world. He gradually meandered through this eerie domain for about 20 minutes before he had his fill of spelunking. He had encountered no one on his foray into the gloom, and being in small, enclosed spaces made him restive, no doubt from his years of confinement in prison. He quickly backtracked to the entrance and was almost blinded as he again stepped out into the sun. He squinted momentarily, and, when his eyes finally acclimated to the fierce light, he was stunned to be gazing at an apparition. Then this apparition, made of real muscle and bone, was moving toward him, grabbing him in a fierce bear hug, and knocking off his fedora in the process.

     Neal clung to Peter like a lifeline. He tried to speak but his breath just kept hitching in his chest. Peter drew him closer, his hand behind Neal’s neck, pulling his face onto Peter’s chest. With his other hand, he rubbed the length of the younger man’s back. Finally, he held Neal out at arm’s length and started to speak.

     “How the hell..…no.….why the hell are you here, Neal?!”

     When Neal thought that he could trust his voice, he said, “I just knew that you couldn’t be dead! **_My_** gut told me otherwise. You must have taken a page out of my book of tricks by faking your own death. But I’m good, Peter—tenacious to a fault. I may even be better than you ‘cause it took you three years to track me down; I found you in just three weeks!”

     Peter gave Neal a puzzled look, then said, “C’mon, let’s head back. I don’t want you to have to tell your story twice. El is waiting at a restaurant at one of the vineyards. She has been my lookout at the marina all morning, watching everyone who came off that ferry. When she spotted you, she called my cell phone. I didn’t approach you right away until I was sure that you hadn’t been followed.”

     They trudged back along the path, with Neal bumping Peter’s shoulder or hip every once in a while to reassure himself that Peter was truly beside him. The silence was broken only once when Neal suddenly remembered that his fedora was still on the ground back at the entrance to the cave. Peter put his arm around Neal, and, with a fond smile, told Neal that he would buy him a replacement. Once the jitney picked them up, Neal crowded in next to Peter, his thigh pressed against the other man’s. He needed that physical contact, the warmth of Peter’s body, to make all of this feel real.

     They disembarked at a lovely vineyard that overlooked the bay. Elizabeth, her hair pulled back in a casual ponytail, jumped up from the table in the adjacent restaurant to greet them. Her blue eyes filled with tears when she hugged and kissed Neal and repeated over and over, “It’s so good to see you!”

     They ordered a carafe of the vineyard’s signature chardonnay and raised their glasses in a toast.

     “To the Phoenix that has risen from the ashes,” Neal began.

     Peter then made his own toast, even though he didn’t sound anything like Orson Wells. “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men. The Shadow knows!”

     Then Peter stared at Neal, with eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.

     “Oh no,” Neal objected. “You’re not getting off the hook that easy. I’m going to interrogate **_you_** for a change. Now spill….every last damn detail!”

     Peter sighed and began what became a long, involved narrative that started over a year ago, weeks before his “death” in New York.

     “I thought it wise to bring Hughes into the intrigue of our investigation. I’ve known Reese for a lot of years and trust him implicitly. The old fox still has friendships in other agencies that were forged decades ago. He had his contact at NSA keep an ear to the ground and eventually was told that our probing and digging was definitely rocking somebody’s boat. They picked up chatter of a contract being taken out on my life. I knew the scuttlebutt, but I never dreamed that little weasel of an oil broker would have been the one to try to pull it off. I still believe that he had, in a panicked moment, decided on ‘suicide by cop,’ and taking me out was his final ‘Fuck you.’

     Hughes trusted his boss, Bancroft, and both men got to the hospital that day, almost as quickly as you, Diana and El did. The trauma team had stabilized me. The bullet had done some damage, but, thank God, missed all the vital organs. Bancroft and Hughes arranged to have me declared dead, and as soon as I was stable, I was transferred to a hospital in Chicago under a pseudonym. Bancroft supplied all of the proper identification and background material. I stayed as an inpatient for almost three weeks, and then Bancroft arranged my transfer to a rehab facility in Iowa, where I stayed for three more months.”

     At that point, El took up the story. “I was told that first night that Peter was still alive, but his condition was precarious. I wasn’t able to see him and it almost killed me. I was afraid to speak to anyone from the office, even you, Neal, because I just didn’t know if I could hold it together.”

     Peter reached out and took her hand. “El was amazing under the circumstances. An unclaimed ‘John Doe’ from the hospital morgue acquired my name, and she took him home for burial in my family’s cemetery plot. She attended the memorial service and did, indeed, hold it together. Of course, I was not aware of any of this for a long time, but when I did find out, I couldn’t have been prouder of my wife.

     Neither Hughes nor Bancroft was entirely sure that the US Marshals Service wasn’t compromised, so Wit Sec was not an option for me. They were finding out, little by little, that this thing was like a cancer with tentacles that spread into almost every agency in the United States government. Bancroft had trusted cronies abroad, and he prevailed upon them to place me as far away as possible. So, here I am, a man exiled from his country, for however long it takes them to eradicate the evil. A dead drop was set up for me that I check every time there is a certain personal ad run in the newspaper. That’s the reason that I saw your surprise post. So, I’m kept in the loop as much as I can be, and I know that progress is being made.”

     Elizabeth chimed in, “Once I knew that Peter was out of danger, I nagged poor Hughes until he was probably ready to strangle me. He finally gave in and told me where Peter was. Neal, you would have been proud of me. I actually went to Devlin and got my own fake ID and passport!”

     Peter rolled his eyes theatrically. “Who knew that she would even remember the name of a petty New York forger that I mentioned eons ago!”

     Neal finally contributed to the conversation. “Peter, Hughes was forced into retirement, and Bancroft was transferred to the West coast. It would appear that your caped crusaders have been neutralized.”

     Peter smiled a Cheshire cat smile. “Don’t let that fool you. Hughes now plays the occasional round of golf, and Bancroft is a ‘yes’ man in Portland, but they are keeping a low profile while working in concert with some really clandestine agencies. Besides NSA, the CIA has gotten involved since a lot of the enterprises of the criminal cadre are international. Foreign espionage watchdogs are also cooperating. Neal, they are getting results! One by one, the fat cats that thought they were off the radar are falling like dominoes. One at a time, members of Congress, industry titans, Wall Street giants, and mafia dons are all being indicted and tried for any number of illicit frauds, swindles and backdoor deals …… even tax evasion and sexual impropriety are on the menu! Haven’t you been reading the newspapers during the last year?”

     Neal gave a huff. “Home delivery of the _New York Times_ wasn’t exactly an amenity in my last place of residence.”

     Peter’s brow furrowed in confusion, and Neal realized that certain information had been withheld from his friend.

     “Peter, I’ve been in prison for the last year.” Neal said quietly.

 


	6. Closure

 

     Neal was astonished that Peter and Elizabeth had not been made aware of his incarceration. They were both now staring at him wide-eyed with horrified expressions. His former mentor finally broke the shocked silence, as he slowly nodded his head.

     “It makes sense, when you think about it. The conspirators weren’t sure how much you knew, so they couldn’t just let you out there, a loose canon who could raise all kinds of questions. It would seem too coincidental if you, too, were suddenly killed while working for the FBI. Being sent back to prison would most likely accomplish their goal without them lifting a finger. Informants usually don’t last long in the prison population.”

     Looking hard at his former partner, Peter asked the dreaded question, “How _**did**_ you manage to survive prison, Neal?”

     Neal never could lie to Peter, so he took the more comfortable route of misdirection. “Oh, you know me, Peter. I’m like a cat with nine lives.”

     That was far from a reassuring answer for Peter, so he just continued his worried, intense stare.

     “Okay, maybe I used up a few of those lives behind bars, but I have a really good friend to thank for my survival.” Neal didn’t elaborate about June’s intercession, and he really didn’t want to heap any guilt onto Peter’s conscience when Neal was the one feeling responsible for Peter’s present predicament.

     “Peter, everything that has happened is because of me, or my father, I should say. When I opened that can of worms, it put you at risk, and I can never make that right. I am so, so sorry. Can you and Elizabeth ever forgive me?”

     Peter shut Neal down pretty quickly. “Listen to me, Neal, and really hear what I am saying. Stop trying to take the weight of the world onto your shoulders. Your father was just a tiny spoke in the wheels of corruption that have been rolling along for decades. Yes, his recurrence into your life was the fulcrum that started the upheaval, but that is not your fault. None of this is your fault!”

     “That doesn’t change the fact that you and Elizabeth are exiles and may never be able to take up your true identities and come home,” Neal said forlornly.

     “Oh, I wouldn’t call living here a true hardship, Buddy. New Zealand is beautiful and the people are welcoming and kind and speak English…..well, their kind of English, anyway. The hardest part has been learning to drive on the wrong side of the road!”

     Having endured Peter’s sometimes maniacal driving in New York City, Neal sincerely doubted that he would now put another of his remaining feline lives in jeopardy by being a passenger in Peter’s car.

     “Exactly what do you do with yourself, Peter? Do you have a job?” Neal was truly curious what husband and wife had been doing for the last year.

     “That dead drop that I spoke of provided Phillip Nolan with a background in finance that passed inspection. I work at one of the major banks in Auckland. El managed to snag a plum job with the Tourist Board. She handles conventions, which entails planning itineraries and banquets and the like. We both love our 9-5 jobs that allow us plenty of quality leisure time for fun things. We’re actually learning to sail,” Peter crowed.

     Neal looked skeptical, so Peter continued. “Neal, I’m decades past my salad days. I’m in my fifties now, and realistically cannot do a lot of what I used to do while being a field agent in the FBI. I think I actually welcome a quieter life. Let the next generation of hotshot gladiators and crusaders fight the good fight and put the United States government back in order. I have faith that it will happen; it will just take time. Although I would love to go home someday, I want to return to a better place than I left.”

     “And I’m happy wherever Peter is,” El added as she hugged her husband.

     “Now—your turn. How did you figure out that we were here, Neal?” Peter looked at Neal with a question in his eyes.

     “I sort of figured it out after visiting your parents, Peter.” Neal began. “They didn’t actually tell me that you were alive, but your mother left some pretty broad hints. When we visited ‘your’ grave, she went off on a tangent telling me an allegory about a friend who found love in another hemisphere.”

   Before Peter could ask any questions, El clarified a few things. “When I took that body back to Upstate New York, I had to tell Peter’s parents the truth. Even though the casket had been sealed to prevent them from viewing the remains before interment, I just couldn’t let them live the remainder of their lives thinking that their son was dead. They understood the need for secrecy. I told them that no one else knew the truth, but I suspected that you might contact them at some point. So, I asked them to keep up the pretense so that you wouldn’t ‘ _go off the reservation_ ,’ as Peter liked to say. They were just supposed to comfort you so that maybe you could achieve some closure.”

     “Closure, in my opinion, is an over-rated euphemism,” Neal said very solemnly.

     “I’m sorry, Neal. I was just trying to protect you and Peter,” El said softly. “I really never thought that Peter’s mother would tell you anything.”

“Don’t be too hard on my Mom, El. This one here has a way with women. He probably put on that _‘sad, pitiful puppy kicked to the curb_ _’_ expression, and she was putty in his hands,” Peter remarked sagely.

     Neal just gave Peter a narrow-eyed squint and kept silent for all of two minutes. “So what now?”

     “Now we all go back to living our lives the best that we can. That means you go back to New York, Neal, or wherever you want to hang your hat now that you are a free man,” Peter stated with authority. “I’m so sorry that you had to spend this last year in prison. I suppose that I just assumed that you would work with Diana or Jones until your parole was completed. But, nonetheless, you are your own man now, and I expect that you’ll make good choices concerning your life style.”

     “You are no longer the boss of me, Peter Burke,” Neal taunted, like an obnoxious five year old.

     Peter ignored him and continued thoughtfully, “If Mr. Kent Allard is here in Auckland, exactly where is the erstwhile Mr. Neal Caffrey?”

     “Why I believe that he is surfing the waves in Maui or Lana’i or another of those lovely little islands that make up the Hawaiian archipelago,” Neal assured Peter with a shake of his head.

     “Well, I would hope that eventually you will escort him home and keep him on the straight and narrow. Maybe you might encourage him to visit the elder Mr. and Mrs. Burke on occasion to make sure that all is well in Upstate New York. I’m sure that they would appreciate hearing all the news of his vacation in the Pacific. He might even mention that he has a very close friend who is a dedicated globe-trotter with a special interest in visiting the land of the kiwis from time to time.” Peter smiled fondly at the young man who was so much more than a friend.

     “I definitely could do that,” Neal assured both Peter and El. “But old ‘Kent’ is going to expect birthday cards when he returns Stateside, you know. However, for now, he intends to stay for a bit, and he wants a very special lady at the Tourist Bureau to show him around!”

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done!! I hope that those of you who made it to the end have enjoyed the ride. Thank you for hanging in there with me. Now that it is finally over, I am looking forward to connecting with all of you. It was really, really difficult to not respond to your comments, but I truly didn’t want to inadvertently say something that would give anything away to ruin it for you. I know that several people were unhappy with me for not marking this as a death fiction in the warnings. I went back and forth on this decision for quite some time. I can only hope that if those readers finished the story, they now understand my motivation. 
> 
> As for this fiction, I wanted to address some of the loose ends that were left dangling throughout the last season of White Collar. Even though the unanswered question of “who” the people were pulling the strings still looms, I wanted to give those nebulous entities somewhat of an identity and provide an explanation of the “why.” 
> 
> I thought that giving the dynamic an ironic twist would make for an interesting story: Peter being the one faking his death instead of Neal, Neal tracking Peter down instead of the other way around, and, of course, Peter sending Neal birthday cards while off the grid. I also wanted to highlight the deep feelings that Neal had developed over the years for Peter, something that the con man hadn’t expected to happen when he brokered the deal to get out of prison. 
> 
> The “quest” upon which Neal embarked was a metaphor of the search during his entire lifetime to find a touchstone. What he discovered was that Peter will always be the litmus test that Neal unconsciously employs in his interaction with those around him. And that is definitely a “good” thing.
> 
> With the series soon coming to an end, I am on tenterhooks wondering just how the show runner will treat our beloved characters. In my alternative ending, I wanted Neal to finally be free, and for Peter and El to find happiness and contentment in their life “together” spent in a beautiful, safe place. To me, New Zealand is one of the most lovely places on earth, so that’s where I put them. The concept of sustaining ties with Neal is a given; their lives will forever be intertwined, even though an ocean may occasionally separate them. 
> 
> For any readers who may be interested, I have written one more story in the vein of fictional alternative endings for White Collar, and, specifically, Peter and Neal’s relationship. I hope to put it up before White Collar resumes in November. It’s not as serpentine or as long as this one, so it will be a one-shot post.
> 
> Thanks again for reading.


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